But what distinguishes the French from almost every other nation, is the general diffusion of the taste for the fine arts, and for elegant amusements, among all ranks of the people. Almost all Frenchmen take not only a pride, but an interest, in the public buildings of Paris, and in the collections of paintings and statues. There is a very general liking for poetry and works of imagination among the middling and lower ranks; they go to the theatres, not merely for relaxation and amusement, but with a serious intention of cultivating their taste, and displaying their critical powers. Many of them are so much in the habit of attending the theatres when favourite plays are acted, that they know almost every word of the principal scenes by heart. All their favourite amusements are in some measure of a refined kind. It is not in drinking clubs, or in sensual gratifications alone, that men of these ranks seek for relaxation, as its too often the case with us; but it is in the society of women, in conversation, in music and dancing, in theatres and operas, and caffés and promenades, in seeing and being seen; in short, in scenes resembling, as nearly as possible, those in which the higher ranks of all nations spend their leisure hours.
While the useful arts are comparatively little advanced, those which relate to ornaments alone are very generally superior to ours; and the persons who profess these arts speak of them with a degree of fervour that often seems ludicrous. "Monsieur," says a peruquier in the Palais Royal, with the look of a man who lets you into a profound secret in science, "Notre art est un art imitatif; en effèt, c'est un des beaux arts;" then taking up a London-made wig, and twirling it round on his finger, with a look of ineffable contempt, "Celui ci n'est pas la belle nature; mais voici la mienne,—c'est la nature personifiée!"
One of the best proofs of the tastes of the lower ranks being, at least in part, cultivated and refined, is to be found in the songs which are common among the peasantry and soldiers. There are a great number of these, and some of them, in point of beauty of sentiment, and elegance of expression, might challenge a comparison even with the admired productions of our own land of song. The following is part of a song which was written in April 1814, and set to the beautiful air of Charles VII. It was popular among the description of persons to whom it relates; and the young man from whom we got it had himself returned home, after serving as a private in the young guard.
LE RETOUR DE L'AMANT FRANCAIS.
De bon cœur je pose les armes;
Adieu le tumulte des camps,
L'amitiè m'offre d'autres charmes,
Au sein de mes joyeux parents;
Le Dieu des Amants me rapelle,
C'est pour m'enroler à son tour;
Et je vais aupres de ma belle,
Servir sous les lois de l'amour.
Aux noms d'honneur et de patrie,
On m'a vu braver le trepas;
Aujourd'hui pour charmer ma vie
La paix fait cesser les combats.
Le Dieu des Amants, &c.
After all that we had heard, and all that is known over the whole world, of the unbridled licentiousness and savage ferocity of the French soldiers, we were not a little surprised to find, that this and other songs written in good taste, and expressing sentiments of a kind of chivalrous elevation and refinement, were popular in their ranks.
The last peculiarity in the French character which we shall notice, is perhaps the most fundamental of the whole; it is their love of mixed society; of the society of those for whom they have no regard, but whom they meet on the footing of common acquaintances. This is the favourite enjoyment of almost every Frenchman; to shine in such society, is the main object of his ambition; his whole life is regulated so as to gratify this desire. He is indifferent about comforts at home—he dislikes domestic society—he hates the retirement of the country; but he loves, and is taught to love, to figure in a large circle of acquaintance, for whom he has not the least heartfelt friendship, with whom he is on no more intimate terms than with perfect strangers, after the first half hour. If he has acquired a reputation in science, arts, or arms, so much the better; his glory will be of much service to him; if not, he must make it up by his conversation.
In consequence of the predilection of the French for social intercourse of this kind, it is, that knowledge of such kinds, and to such an extent, as can be easily introduced into conversation, is very general; that the opportunities of such intercourse are carefully multiplied; that all arts which can add to the attractions of such scenes are assiduously improved; that liveliness of disposition is prized beyond all other qualities, while those eccentricities of manner, which seem to form a component part of what we call humorous characters, are excluded; that even childish amusements are preferred to solitary occupations; that taste is cultivated more than morality, wit esteemed more than wisdom, and vanity encouraged more than merit.
It is easy to trace the pernicious effects of a taste for society of this kind, on individual character, when it is encouraged to such a degree as to become a serious occupation, instead of a relaxation to the mind. When the main object of a man's life is distinction among his acquaintances, from his wit—his liveliness—his elegance of taste—his powers of conversation—or even from the fame he may have earned by his talents; he becomes careless about the love of those with whom he is on more intimate terms, and who do not value him exclusively, or even chiefly, for such qualities. His domestic affections are weakened; he lives for himself and enjoys the present moment without either reflection or foresight; with the outward appearance of an open friendly disposition, he becomes, in reality, selfish and interested; that he may secure general sympathy from indifferent spectators, he is under the necessity of repressing all strong emotions, and expressions of ardent feeling, and of confining himself to a worldly and common-place morality; he learns to value his moral feelings, as well as his intellectual powers, chiefly for the sake of the display which he can make of them in society; and to reprobate vice, rather on account of its outward deformity, than of its intrinsic guilt; gradually he becomes impatient of restraints on the pleasure which he derives from social intercourse; and the religious and moral principles of his nature are sacrificed to the visionary idol to which his love of pleasure and his love of glory have devoted him.
Such appears to be the state of the minds of most Parisians. They have been so much accustomed to pride themselves on the outward appearance of their actions, that they have become regardless of their intrinsic merits; they have lived so long for effect, that they have forgotten that there is any other principle by which their lives can be regulated.
Of the devotion of the French to the sort of life to which we refer, the best possible proof is, their fondness for a town life; the small number of chateaux in the country that are inhabited—and the still more remarkable scarcity of villas in the neighbourhood of Paris, to which men of business may retire. There are a few houses of this description about Belleville and near Malmaison; but in general, you pass from the noisy and dirty Fauxbourgs at once into the solitude of the country; and it is quite obvious, that you have left behind you all the scenes in which the Parisians find enjoyment. The contrast in the neighbourhood of London, is most striking. It is easy to laugh at the dulness and vulgarity of a London citizen, who divides his time between his counting-house and his villa, or at the coarseness and rusticity of an English country squire; but there is no description of men to whom the national character of our country is more deeply indebted.